


Carlton's Big Move

by kisahawklin



Series: Carlton's Big Adventures [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-05
Updated: 2007-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>After having his home outed to the entire criminal community, Carlton figures it's time to move. He isn't expecting any help, but he probably should have known his partner better.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Carlton's Big Move

**Author's Note:**

> After having his home outed to the entire criminal community, Carlton figures it's time to move. He isn't expecting any help, but he probably should have known his partner better.

Carlton turns on his heel and heads inside. Just before he shuts the door, he hears Spencer and Guster beating a hasty retreat. Smartest thing he's ever seen the kid do.

He flips open his cell phone as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom, stopping in the hallway closet to look for his luggage. He gives the movers instructions to his house, gets an appointment for tomorrow, due to a cancellation.

He rummages in the closet for his practical but plain suitcase and garment bag. He takes the duffel bag too, just to be sure he has enough room.

He lays all three out on the neatly made bed and opens the closet doors. He pulls out his work suits and shoves as many as will fit into the garment bag. It should only be three, but he forces five in there and the bag holds. He neatly folds the rest of his suits into the suitcase, along with his dress shirts and ties, two pair of jeans, and four or five casual shirts. The duffel holds his underthings and socks, and he groans when he realizes he'll need belts and shoes. The belts fit in the duffel just fine. The shoes… the shoes are going to be something of a problem.

He zips the bag shut and carries the suitcase and garment bag downstairs to his car. O'Hara and Vick have done an admirable job getting the convicts off his lawn, but he still sees two walking slowly away as he puts his luggage in the trunk of his car. It makes him move a little quicker.

He finds a box in the pantry and takes a couple of towels he bought at Target. He layers the shoes in the box, with towels in between. He's a little hasty perhaps, but he doesn't want his car down there alone for long. He keeps moving, the doing keeping him from thinking. He can't afford to slow down yet.

He glances around him as he carries the bag and the box downstairs. He grabs the couple of photos he salvaged from his - no, his wife's - house when he moved out, and his collection of three classic movies. Not because he wants them; simply because he doesn't want the movers to see them.

He hasn't really had time to make the place look lived in. He hasn't _made_ time, he admits to himself. At any rate, it won't take much to move his collection of cheap furniture and crappy kitchenware to a storage unit. _Screw it_, he thinks. _They can take the whole lot to Goodwill_.

That makes him feel better, who knows why. _Last looks_ he thinks, and scans the living room. His briefcase is sitting on the table next to the door, and suddenly he remembers his toothbrush. How he could have forgotten that, he has no idea. He runs upstairs and puts his toiletries in his ditty bag, throwing out anything he doesn't need immediately or is close to empty. The whole process takes about ten minutes and he's starting to feel nauseous about still being here.

He scans the bedroom and a flash of insight tells him there are no personal effects in here. There are no personal affects anywhere in the house, really. The two photos and three movies encompass the whole of his life. If he were the melancholy type, that would make him sad.

Carlton takes a deep breath, a good-bye of sorts to his crappy bed and the plain sheet and comforter set he bought at Wal-Mart. He marches downstairs, picks up the cardboard box, duffel bag, and briefcase and goes out to his car. _Please let it not be broken into, tampered with, or spray-painted_, he thinks.

The car looks fine, and he deposits the rest of his life in the trunk, looking carefully around before closing it. No one on the street. He supposes gun-waving is an effective way to get your neighbors to remember urgent appointments elsewhere. He shrugs. They're rid of him now.

After thoroughly checking under the car and in the back seat, Carlton drives off with a curt wave to his house. It hadn't been much of a home to him, but it was a decent place to hang his hat. He hates looking for places to stay, and until the divorce is final, there's no way to buy a house.

He drives around Santa Barbara for over an hour, thinking about what to do next. He stops at a used car lot he wouldn't normally be caught dead at, and trades in his sensible car for something smaller and sportier. He's never been the type to drive a flashy car, but it seems like he's going to be undercover for a while.

The sun has set and he's getting hungry. He was looking forward to cooking up a bit of lamb with new potatoes for dinner, and now it looks like he'll be dining off the McDonald's gourmet menu.

He picks something up and goes to the cheapest motel he can find. He's going to be here for at least a week while he finds a new place, so he pays up front and unpacks all his clothes before sitting on the bed with his exceptionally limp chicken sandwich. By the time he gets to it, it's cold, too.

* * *

"Please, Shawn," Jules begs. "You have to help. He's going to kill me."

"Not before the ex-cons kill him," Shawn answers, and turns to Gus for affirmation.

"You're not helping, Shawn," Gus says, and Shawn deflates. "You don't really want him killed."

"Of course not," Shawn responds. "But I'm not going to get in between him and his big reunion either."

"You don't have to," Jules interrupts. "I'll find him a new place. I just want you to find out what I should get him for a housewarming gift."

"You don't think the apartment is enough?" Shawn quips. He knows he's going to fold, so it's unnecessary that Jules presses her advantage and bats her eyelashes.

"I'm not buying him an apartment. I need to find the perfect thing to give him to make up for this mess."

"I would have thought you'd given up on trying to surprise Lassiter," Gus says, and Shawn nods his head like a bobble-head doll.

"Do I have to hire you to get you to do this, oh great psychic?" Jules says, opening her purse. "What are your rates?"

"Well," Gus starts, smelling blood. He leans in.

"A favor." Shawn says, and Gus stands up straight and makes a sharp sound of outrage.

"What?! Shawn, she is offering us money!"

"A favor is more valuable," Shawn answers smoothly, and ducks in between Gus and Jules to hold her hand between both of his. "I'm sensing a-" Jules pulls her hand away. "-a disturbance in the force, Batman."

"That's Star Wars," Gus corrects automatically, though he knows Shawn knows that.

"You're sensing a reluctant agreement," Jules says, and Shawn nods. "The movers are at his house now, so we might want to hurry."

"We?" Shawn asks, but Jules has already turned her back to him and started to walk out.

* * *

Shawn talks his way past the head mover, a guy in a green polo shirt with a clipboard. The living room is already empty, and a girl in her early twenties is packing up dishes without too much care.

"Whoa!" Shawn exclaims, as she sets a plate on top of another with a clink. "Be careful there, you might chip the Corningware."

The girl frowns at him and waves her hand. "It's all going to Goodwill anyway, what's the big deal."

Shawn is quiet for a moment, thinking about this turn of events. Jules starts rummaging through the cabinets, and the girl hands her a trash bag. "Here, all the perishables have to be thrown out."

Shawn looks up at the cabinet and notices the spices, sugar, flour and other basic necessities of life. As Jules opens up the other cabinet, he raises an eyebrow. When Jules opens the fridge, he starts having convulsions and doubles over in pain like the last time he had Indian takeout. "We're done," he says. "I'm not very happy about having a psychic understanding of Lassy, but we're totally done here." He starts walking away and Gus follows. He's had his hands in his pockets this entire time; Shawn knows he's distinctly uncomfortable.

Jules shuffles after them in her extremely cute way, stuttering 'buts' and picking her way among the boxes and bags in the kitchen. Shawn lets a little half smile escape before he turns to her. He takes a breath to speak and she rushes in and beats him.

"I'm going to look around some more, so I know what Carlton likes in an apartment," she says.

Shawn rolls his eyes and whines. "Why? You can see everything you need to see here. He doesn't care where he lives."

Gus furrows his brow in that worrisome way and decides to be argumentative. "There's furniture. He keeps the place clean. It's more than you do."

"Tut tut, Gus," Shawn says, affecting his highbrow observational tone. "It's not lived in. There aren't books or movies or pictures. He's giving everything away to Goodwill." He looks at the 27 inch flat screen TV sitting on the lawn and wonders if he can steal it away from the movers.

"I'm going to look upstairs anyway," Jules says, and Shawn huffs and turns around. "You don't have to come with me," she says. "I'm a big girl."

"Now I'm curious," Shawn admits, "and I don't want you knowing something I don't."

Jules leads the way and Shawn follows without a second thought. Gus takes a quick look around before he climbs the stairs, and Shawn can tell the exact moment Gus realizes absolutely no one cares about what they're doing or why they're here. He loosens up and walks like a normal person.

Jules pokes around in the closet, which is empty, and Shawn peeks into the bathroom. The toilet seat and cover are down and it is spotless and empty. He snorts. "That's it! Lassy's clearly a woman. No man's bathroom looks like this."

"There's nothing here," Jules says, and sighs an adorable little sigh.

"Au contraire," Shawn says. "A bed, simply covered in a boring bedding set from Wal-Mart, no other place to sit, and one cheapish chest of drawers."

"That doesn't tell us anything," Gus says, looking at Shawn to be sure he's not going to be contradicted.

"No, you're right," Shawn says. "I told you we got everything we needed from downstairs. Lassy's not here much, which must be how he keeps the place clean. He doesn't have guests, he doesn't have hobbies, and the only thing he likes to do besides policework is cook."

"He cooks?" Jules asks, with her eyes wide and mouth open in surprise. Shawn loves to make her look like that.

"He has star anise and cumin. Who uses cumin?" Shawn asks.

"Cumin is used in a lot of curries," Gus provides.

"I rest my case." Shawn answers and bangs his fist like a gavel on the dresser. Jules is looking at him skeptically, so he goes a little further. "He doesn't have any prepared foods. No mac and cheese, no Spaghettios, no ketchup, for the love of everything that's holy. He can't afford to eat out every night - besides being on a policeman's salary, he's going through a divorce."

Jules looks suitably impressed, and Shawn realizes he forgot to use his psychic vision to explain. He's getting too lax around her.

"Can we please go now?" Gus asks, and for once, Shawn agrees with him.

* * *

Carlton comes into work the next day, despite Chief Vick's kind offer for him to take the week off to look for a new place. He tells her that criminals don't take time off, and she politely changes the subject.

O'Hara is in when he gets there and she stays at her desk when he sits down, which says a lot about her courage. He's not ready to talk to her yet, so he sits down and starts working on paperwork for one of the cases he closed up yesterday. He's only recently started doing the reports on the computer; he would still write them out if he could. He hunts and pecks, and eventually gets through the report, transferring his meticulous notes from his notebook to the report. He does the same for the second case, and when he looks up, it's time for lunch. He's always surprised how quickly time goes when he's reliving cases he's solved.

O'Hara's not at her desk, and he gets up to stretch before heading down the street to one of the street vendors. There's a little Asian woman that makes a terrific yakisoba. His mouth is watering just thinking about it. Unfortunately, O'Hara comes by at that moment with pre-made sushi she's bought at the Whole Foods up the street.

"Spicy tuna?" she asks, and he thinks her voice might be a little quieter than normal.

"No, thanks," he answers, and puts his jacket on. "I'm heading out to see Mrs. Fukushima."

"Carlton," O'Hara says, and he takes a calming breath. "I'm really sorry-"

"Please don't apologize," Carlton answers. "And don't do it again."

"I'd like to make it up to you," she says, and he flinches. "I can look for your new place," she hurries on, unnerving him into silence by sheer will. "I'm really good at that type of thing, and then it's something you won't have to worry about."

He is always surprised at her perseverance, and her offer catches him off guard. How did she know he didn't like to look for new apartments? "I'm very particular," he lies, and she narrows her eyes in the way she does when suspects try to lie to her. She doesn't call him on it, though, and he's thankful for that.

"Please, Carlton," she says in her 5-year-old-asking-for-a-cookie voice.

He straightens his tie and puts his hands on his hips. "I'll need to okay it first."

"Of course, of course," she answers, and she looks like she's about to take off.

"I suppose it will help me work on my cases without interruption," he says, still unsure of why he doesn't want to take her up on her offer. Maybe he just doesn't want her knowing where he lives. She's silently pleading with him, her head tilted and eyes serious, and he glances to the side before giving in. O'Hara has a remarkable knack for getting people to do what she wants. "Fine. But I need it by the end of the week."

O'Hara's mouth forms a little 'oh' and he raises his eyebrows at her. "That's fine," she says, "no problem."

He nods and turns around to go out for lunch. He coughs and glances backwards after a few seconds to see her sitting at her desk, sushi forgotten, typing away on her computer.

* * *

O'Hara comes through for him, finds him a cozy ranch home owned by an older couple who want to move out of the city. They've got a nephew that'll do the repairs, they tell him, but Carlton knows he's more likely to do them himself than call his landlords. It's smaller than his last place, but has a fantastic kitchen ("my wife loves to cook," the old gent tells him) and a small yard in the back with a garden, if he feels like it. He always thought he might like to have fresh vegetables to cook with, but never had the space to do it. He really likes the place and O'Hara is flushed with pride when he tells the couple that he'll take it.

"Now we need to have a housewarming party," she says, and claps.

"No," Carlton answers, and she frowns exaggeratedly.

"Please? Just some of the detectives-"

"We saw how well that went last time," he observes, and she puts on her stubborn face.

"That was a surprise. This time I'm telling you outright, I'll let you pick... well, most of the guest list, and the date and time." She looks at him earnestly. "We could help you move your stuff," she says, and Carlton can hear a hint of guilt in her voice.

"I don't need anyone to help me move, and I don't want the whole department knowing where I live." He's grateful for her help, but this is too much. He hates having people over, and they hate coming over.

"I'll just invite people without your help, then." She pulls a list of employees out of her bag and starts ticking people off. "You, me, Captain Vick, of course, O'Malley, Schwartz, McNab, Nelson..."

"Not Nelson," Carlton says, not quite believing he's going to go along with this.

* * *

He's got two weeks to get his house settled and do something about providing food for twenty people that are coming over to his house. O'Hara mentions that she invited Henry Spencer, and he offered to grill out. When Carlton calls him to take him up on the offer (on the superb gas grill the Wagners left for him), Henry suggests burgers and hot dogs, maybe a steak for the guest of honor, or some fresh fish. Carlton winces but agrees, and tells Henry he'll spring for the fresh fish. Even if he picks it up in the market, it's got to be better than hamburgers and hot dogs.

The Wagners wanted to redecorate, so they offered the place to him furnished, which was an immense relief. He makes it look a little less dated by pulling off the dustcovers and cozies, and putting all the doilies in a box for Mrs. Wagner. He buys a new bed; the idea of sleeping on the same bed as a couple that's been married for forty-six years is too disturbing.

The day comes, and he's pretty happy with the entire affair. In two weeks, this place has become more of a home to him than his last digs. Maybe more of a home to him than the house he and his wife shared. O'Hara shows up early to help with setting out snacks and drinks, and delivers her gift of a hand-carved swing for the back yard. He's flabbergasted.

She blushes and smiles at him, patting him on the shoulder. He thinks she might want him to hug her, but that's simply out of the question. The officers start showing up in twos and threes and Henry gets there in time to start putting some serious meat on the grill. He's thrown together some vegetables as well, and corn on the cob. Carlton brings him a beer personally, to say thanks for his help.

The little Spencer and his sidekick show up too, and Carlton is feeling gracious enough to ignore him. He keeps an eye on him and is always sure to keep a fair distance between them.

After dinner and drinks, O'Hara has him open his presents, and he's stunned by an array of world class kitchen accouterments. There's Wüsthof knives and Le Crueset cookware, a complete spice rack (that's from the younger Spencer) and one Demeyere sauté pan.

He's speechless. He didn't think anyone knew about how much he enjoyed cooking. He went down to LA for the classes, and his culinary trip to New York was supposed to be a convention in New Jersey. He scans the room, looking for O'Hara. She smiles, wiggles her fingers in approximation of a wave, and points just over his left shoulder.

He turns around, and Shawn Spencer is right there, too close for anyone's comfort.

"Nice haul," Spencer says, and Carlton frowns at him. "I could feel the French Laundry vibes emanating from you the moment we met." Carlton narrows his eyes and Spencer ignores him, as he always does. "Don't try to keep secrets from a psychic," he says. "I know about those classes..."

Carlton lets out a little "uh" but covers it up with a cough. "You don't know anything. You're guessing, and you got lucky."

"You can cook me dinner with all the fancy cookware to say thanks," Spencer says, the audacious little twit. "I like curry." He leans in and grabs Carlton in a quick hug, the one O'Hara was never going to get out of him, and whispers in his ear, "I'll see you Thursday."


End file.
